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by fragilespark



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilespark/pseuds/fragilespark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver and Sebastian meet during Carver's first year in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Carver checked the Chantry board for new notes. Occasionally there was something there which made it worth putting up with the Sister who was always out preaching. This time, she wasn’t there. Someone else approached him from the steps. He’d seen the archer before, in a full set of armour, far too polished for the Brother he seemed to be. He had dispensed with the white and gold for now, his attire simple, his bow also absent.

_Probably never fought in the field in his life._

“Hello,” he smiled, making his way directly to Carver, “Why don’t you come inside, I just baked some rolls for the orphans and there’s some left over.”

Carver was hit with a burst of temper and he let it out unchecked. “Just because I come from Ferelden doesn’t mean I’m begging at every doorstep! You people just love to look down on us but I don’t need your fucking charity. Why don’t you save it for someone in rags-”

The man held his hands up. “I… I meant no offence, Master… Hawke?”

“I am _not_ Hawke. My name is _Carver_.”

“But your family name-” he stopped and sighed. “I understand you’re from Ferelden. I used a recipe from your homeland and I just thought that you might like to give your opinion on the taste. Forgive the presumption.”

Carver stood there, fists clenched, but his breathing evened out and his anger faded. “No wonder only the orphans will eat it. Nobody else would take it if you paid them. They’ll think you have to mix dirt into it.”

“Not everyone has such a poor opinion of Fereldans as you think.”

“Well of course you’d say that, you’re not from around here. You’re not out there every day. I know exactly what it’s like.”

“Which is why you view a kindness with suspicion?”

Carver huffed and looked away. “Look, I know you mean well, but keep your bread for someone who needs it, okay?”

“Oh, it’s not bread, exactly.”

“It’s not? What is it?”

The man smiled and damn if it wasn’t an attractive smile. “Will you come in?”

Carver was intrigued, but the man was right, he was still suspicious. “Is this just a ploy to get me to listen to a sermon?”

“No, no, not at all. But if you like I can bring the tray out.”

The thought of his brother strolling by with some fellow mercenary and witnessing the sight was enough to make his mind up. “Persistent- alright! Lead the way, er…”

“Sebastian.”

“So where _are_ you from?” he asked as they went up the steps, “I’ve never heard an accent like yours before.” Now that he wasn’t fuming with anger, he could better appreciate it. If Sebastian was the one outside the chantry, they might get more listeners.

“Starkhaven.”

Sebastian led him into the kitchen and Carver’s senses were filled with the warmth and smell of home, of years past. He closed his eyes. It was his and Bethany’s birthday, and Leandra was baking, Malcolm and Garrett would be home any minute, and Mother took out the steaming tray and warned them not to touch it, like she had every year since they were children, even though they were now fourteen… and every year she would pass a small bowl of icing and dried fruit all chopped up which Bethany, Garrett and Malcolm finished up between them, smearing it all over the rolls. He always thought it was a mage thing, having a sweet tooth. Carver preferred his plain. His mouth was watering already. The scent of the cinnamon always had that effect on him. So bittersweet now.

He opened his eyes and took one from the tray, biting into it. The taste was all there, even if it was a little sweeter than he remembered. Then again, it had been years. Malcolm had died just before their fifteenth birthday.

“Any good?”

Carver swallowed before wiping the sugar from his lips. He nodded because he couldn’t say anything yet. Ferelden faded, replaced with Kirkwall, hard and harsh in a way that cold winters never were.

He would reach nineteen alone.

“They were my favourite.”


End file.
